 CHAPTER XVII The story of that battle upon the tumbling decks of the Nathan Ross was to be told and retold at many a gam upon the whaling grounds. It was such a story as strong men love, a story of overwhelming odds, of epic combat, of splendid death where blood ran hot and strong. There were a full score of men in the group that came aft toward Joel, and as they came, others, running from the foal and dropping from the rigging, joined them. Every man was drunk with the vision of wealth that he had built upon Mark Shore's story. The thing had grown and grown in the telling, it had fattened on the greed native in the men, and it was a monstrous thing now, and one that would not be denied. The men, as they moved aft, made grumbling sounds with their half-cut breath, and these sounds blended into a roaring growl like the growl of a beast. To face these men stood Joel. For an instant he was alone. Then without word, old Aaron took his stand beside his captain. Aaron held grip in both hands and adds. Its edge was sharp enough to slice hard wood like cheese. And at Joel's other side, the cook, a round man with greasy traces of his craft upon his countenance, he carried a heavy cleaver. There was an ancient feud between galley and focsel, and the men greeting the cooks coming with a hungry cry of delight. Joel glanced at these new allies and saw their weapons. He took the adds from Aaron, the cleaver from the other, and he turned and hurled them behind him over the rail. And in the moment's silence that followed on this action he called to the men, "'Go back to your places!' They growled at him. They were wordless, but they knew the thing they desired. The cook complained to Joel's elbow. I could use that cleaver!' "'I'll not have blood spilled,' Joel told him. If there's fighting it'll be with fists.' And Mark touched Joel lightly on the shoulder and took his place beside him. He was smiling, a twisted smile above the swollen lump upon his jaw. He said lightly, "'If it's fists, Joel, I think I'm safest to fight beside you.' Joel looked up at him with a swift glance, and he brushed his hand across his eyes and nodded. "'I counted on that, Mark, in the last long run,' he said. Mark gripped his arm and pressed it, and in that moment the long unspoken enmity between the brothers died forever. They faced the men. One howled like a wolf. "'He's done us! Done us in!' And another, "'They're going to hog it, them two!' The little sea of scowling, twisting faces moved. It surged forward. The men charged, more than a score, to overwhelm the four. In the moment before Joel had marked young Dick Morell, at one side, twisted with indecision. And in the instant when the men moved, he called, "'With us, Mr. Morell!' It was command, not question, and the boy answered with a shout and a blow. On the flank of the men he swept toward them, and Joel's harpooner and one of Asa Werthen's old men formed a triumvirate that fought there. They were thus seven against a score. But they were seven good men, and the score were a mob. It was fists at the first as Joel had sworn. The first charging line broke upon them, and old Aaron was swept back, fighting like a cat, and crushed and bruised, and left helpless in an instant. The fat cook dodged into his galley and snatched a knife and held the door there, prodding the flanks of those who swirled past his stronghold. Joel dropped the first man who came to him, and likewise Mark. But another twined round Joel's legs, and he could not kick them free, and there was no time to stoop and tear the man away. He and Mark kept back to back for a moment, but Mark was not a defensive fighter. He could not stand still and wait a tack. And when his second man fell he leaped the twisting body and charged into the clump of them. His black hair tossed, his eye was flaming, and his long arms worked like pistons and like flails. He became the center of a group that writhed and dissolved and formed again. His head rose above them all. The man who gripped Joel's legs freed one hand and began to beat at Joel's body from below. Joel could not endure the blows. He bent and took a rain of buffets on his head and shoulders while he caught the attacker by the throat and lifted him up and flung him away. He staggered free, set his back against the galley wall, and when he shifted to avoid another attack he found his place in the galley door. The fat cook crouched behind him and Joel heard him shout, I'll watch your legs, Captain. Give him the iron, sir, give him the iron. Once Joel, looking down, saw the cook's knife play like a flame between his knees. None would seek to pin him there. The black harpooner fought his way across the deck to Joel's side. He left a trail of twisting bodies behind him, and he was grinning with a huge delight. Now, sir, we'll do him, sir, he screamed. The sweat poured down his black cheeks, and his mouth was cut and bleeding. His shirt was torn away from one shoulder and arm. Good man, said Joel, between his panting blows, good man! Across the deck one who had run forward for a hand-spike swept it down on young Dick Morrell's brown head. Morrell dodged, but the blow cracked his shoulder and swept him to the deck. The man who had fought beside him, sproutled the prostrate body and jerked an iron from the boat on the davits at his back and held it like a lance to keep all men at a distance. A sheath-knife sped and twisted in the air and struck him but first above the eye, so that he fell limply and lay still. Mark Shore had been forced against the rail near where Jim Finch was pinned. Big Finch was howling and weeping with fright, and a little man of the crew with the rat's mean soul, who hated Finch, had found his hour. He was leaping about the mate, lashing him mercilessly with a heavy end of rope, and Finch screamed and twisted beneath the blows. So swiftly had the tumult of the battle arisen that all these things had come to pass before the harpooners asleep in the steerage could wake and reach the deck. When they climbed the ladder and looked about them they saw Morrell and his ally prostrate at one side, Joel and the cook holding the galley-door against a half-dozen men, and Big Mark's towering head amidst a knot of a half-dozen more. And one of the harpooners backed away toward the waist of the ship, watchful and wary, taking no part in the affair. But the other he was a caped verter, black blood crossed with Spanish. And Mark Shore had tied him to a davit, once upon a time, and lashed him till he bled for false committed. He saw Mark now and his eyes shown greedily. This man crouched and crossed to a boat, his own, and chose his own harpoon. He twisted off the wooden sheath that covered the point and flung it across the deck, and he poised the heavy iron in his hands and started slowly toward Mark, moving on tiptoe lightly as a cat. Mark saw him coming, and the big man shouted joyfully, Why, Silva, come you! He flung aside the men encircling him. One among them held the hand-spike with which he had struck down Morrell, and Mark smoked this man in the body, and when he doubled wrenched the great club from his hand. He swung this, leaped to meet the harpooner. They came together in mid-deck. The great hand-spike whistled through the air and down. An eggshell crunched beneath a heel, Silva dropped. Mark stood for an instant above him, and in that instant every man saw the harpoon which Silva had driven home. Its heavy shaft hung dragging on the deck. It hung from Mark's breast, high in the right shoulder, and the point stood out six inches behind his shoulder-blade. It seemed to drag at him. He bent slowly beneath its weight, and drooped, and lay at last across the body of the man whose skull the hand-spike had crushed. There were at that moment about a dozen of the men still on their feet, but in the instant of their paralyzed dismay two things struck them. Two furies. Dick Morrell, tottering on unsteady feet, brandishing a razor-tipped lance full ten feet long. He came upon the men from the flank, shouting, and Joel, when he saw his brother fall, left his shelter in the galley door and swept upon them. The fat cork with the knife fought nobly at his side. The men broke. They fled, headlong, forward, and Joel and Morrell and the cork pursued them through the waist, past the tripods, till they tumbled down the focusle-scuttle and huddled in their bunks and howled. A dozen limp bodies sprawled upon the deck, bodies of moaning men with heads that would ache and pound for days. Joel left Morrell to guard the focusle and went back among them, going swiftly from man to man. Joel was dead. The others would not die, save only Mark. The iron had pierced his chest, had ripped a lung, end of Chapter 17, recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 18 of All the Brothers were Valiant. Chapter 18. He died that night, smiling to the last. He was able to speak now and then before the end, and Joel and Priss were near him at his side, soothing him, listening. He asked Joel once, Shall I tell you where Pearl's? Joel shook his head. I do not want them, he said. They have enough blood to turn them crimson. Let them lie. And Mark smiled and nodded faintly. Right, boy. Let them lie. And his eyes shone up at them, and he whispered presently, That was a fight to tell about, Joel. In those hours beside Mark, Priss completed the transition from girl to woman. She was very sober and quiet. But she did not weep, and she answered Mark's smiles. And Mark, watching her, seemed to remember something toward the last. Joel saw his eyes beckon, and he bent above his brother, and Mark whispered weakly, Treasure, Priss, Joel, she's worth all. Kissed her, but she fought me. Joel gripped his brother's hand. I knew there was no harm in you or in her, he said. Don't trouble, Mark. When old Aaron had stitched the canvas shroud, they laid Mark on the cutting stage. And Joel read over him from the book, while the men stood silent by. Chasened men, heads bandaged, arms and slings. Big Jim Finch at one side, shamed of face. Vard sullen as ever, but with hopelessness writ large upon him. Morrell and old Hooper. Joel finished, and he closed the book. Unto the deep. The cutting stage tilted, and the wave leaped and caught its burden and bore it softly down. The sun was shining, the sea danced. The wind was warm on Fair Priscilla's cheek. And as though the brief dramatic chapter being ended, another must at once begin, the mast-head man presently called down to Joel, the long droning hail. Ah! Blow! And he flung his arm toward where a misty spout sparkled in the sun a mile or two away. Minutes later the boats took water, and the Nathan Ross was about her business again. Joel wrote in the log that night, with Priscilla beside him, her fingers in his hair. Priscilla had been very humble till Joel took her in his arms and comforted her. He set down the ship's position. He recorded their capture that day of a great bull cashelot. And then this day Mark Shore was buried at sea. He died late last night from wounds received when he fought valiantly to put down the mutiny of the crew. Fourth brother of the House of Shore. To below the ancient and enduring epitaph. All the brothers were valiant. Priscilla, reading over his shoulder, pointed to this line and whispered sorrowfully, But I called you a coward, Joel. He looked up at her and smiled a little. I know better now, she said. So give me the pen and close your eyes. He heard the scratch of steel on paper. And when he opened his eyes again, he saw that Priscilla had underscored with three deep strokes. The first word of that honourable line. End of Chapter 18. Recording by Roger Maline. End of All the Brothers were Valiant by Ben Ames Williams.